


Sick Strife

by IsaacTheGreat69



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emetophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsaacTheGreat69/pseuds/IsaacTheGreat69
Summary: Dave comes down with something awful, but there's no rest for the weary.





	Sick Strife

How could you let this happen.

You lay in bed, muscles too weak and bones too heavy to really move any more than what it takes to roll over. Your head pounds when you do manage to sit up, and your chest aches in an indescribable way. Your nose is stuffed, leaving you to breathe through your mouth, and there’s a painful kind of pressure in your throat.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re sick.

It was only a vague discomfort in your throat and chest when you went to bed, and by the time you had woken up, it had escalated to a full blown assault on your body and mind. How you even manage to get sick when you don’t even leave your apartment is beyond you, but in the moment, it doesn’t really matter.

You just hope Bro doesn’t demand to strife.

An obnoxious ping sounds above you and you angle your head (with a throb to remind you just how shitty the situation is) to find your phone on your bedside table. You have to turn down the brightness before you can make out the notification blinking on your screen. Someone is pestering you.

 

 

 

 

Your head hurts.

 

Maybe you can get blackout drunk and get some god damn sleep. 

 

 

You wish you had a dad like that. At least he would take care of you.

You shake your head; thinking like that never helps. 

Something outside of your room falls over and crashes to the floor. You’re not an idiot, and Bro’s not clumsy; he wants you outside, now.

 

 

 

It takes you longer than is acceptable to get your ass out of bed and into the living room. Bro is sitting on the futon watching some shitty infomercial, and you cautiously sit at the other end of the futon. Just as your ass meets cushion, Bro disappears, and something hits you on the back of the head.

You look behind you on the futon to find a smuppet with a sword through it. You feel a little nauseous for several reasons as you remove the piece of shit from the smuppet and try to gain your balance back when you stand.

The trek up the stairs takes ages, and by the time you’re nearing the top you’re wheezing a bit, a cold sweat on your brow and chilling the back of your neck. Your muscles ache.

Bro spares no time in strifing you; the moment you reach the roof, you’re blocking a blow aimed at your head. He jumps back, only to come at you again from the side. You stumble with the momentum of his sword, catching yourself on the door frame to the roof, and by this point you’re full on panting.

You wipe your forehead and tighten your grip on your sword, waiting for the next attack. Bro is nowhere to be seen, and it makes you more anxious than usual. You try to swallow down a wave of nausea, closing your eyes for a brief second, and that’s when Bro strikes. He jams the hilt of his katana right into your gut, and you tumble down a few steps, vision going black.

You turn over onto hands and knees just in time to vomit all over the steps below you, shaking wildly with the effort to hold yourself up. You feel clammy, and you can hardly make out the sound of you begging Bro to just hold on for a minute over the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Bro tells you the enemy won’t ‘wait’ or ‘hold on’ just because you’re feeling under the weather, get the fuck up. You dry heave a couple of times, and just as you’re struggling to right yourself, Bro kicks your hip and you go down, thankfully missing your mess. Your vision is getting a little blurry, and that pain in your chest comes back with 2.5 kids, divorce papers, and a god damn dog.

Bro stares at you for what feels like an eternity before letting out a disappointed puff of air and tossing you over his shoulder. The motion makes you even more nauseous, your head pounding ferociously with every step closer to the apartment. Bro practically flings you back into bed, shutting the door, and just like that he’s gone, out of the apartment.

You thank whatever god might be out there that he’s just letting you be as you try to breathe and get through the pain. Somehow you manage to fall asleep, tossing and turning in a fevered haze, the only coherent thought over the course of the next two days being _at least he’s gone._

 

 

You wake up in a cold sweat, shivering under the seemingly concrete mass of blankets on top of you. You cough weakly and turn your head to look at the door just as it opens to reveal John with a tray holding a bowl and a glass of apple juice. You smile weakly at him, still shivering, as he sets the tray on your bedside table and sits next to you on the bed, kissing your damp cheek.

“Hey, you’re finally awake! What were you dreaming about?”


End file.
